


Recovery

by Rosa52



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 15:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7807144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosa52/pseuds/Rosa52
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* the reference to T.S. Eliot's "Little Gidding" is a nod to thisiszircon's "25 Hours." (https://thisiszircon.dreamwidth.org/38458.html) I read the poem and loved it, and it seemed to fit here.</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“What’s your girl like?” 

Danny exhaled carefully, opening one eye and then the other in a deliberate exercise of control. Private Patrick Shaughnessy of the United States Marine Corps was 21 years old and in love. In love enough, and Irish enough, that Danny had been listening to a comprehensive exploration of Patrick’s fiancée’s many charms for over close to three hours without any breaks. From what he could remember from the numbing recitation, Patrick had fallen for Alicia in sophomore algebra. She wanted to be a nurse; she was slender, with tits that could best be described with a reverent “oh, lord,” and she was “real sweet.” That had come up several times – Alicia soon-to-be Shaughnessy from Decatur, Georgia, sweet as they came. 

Danny wasn’t sure why Patrick had picked him for the recitation. Maybe it was because he hadn’t heard it before, or because, unlike the rest of the platoon, he couldn’t order Patrick to go do something else. It was possible that Patrick figured an older guy was a good sounding board, or that Danny, long past 21 and unmarried, was a sad sack who could use a story about a sweet girl thrilled to her core by a diamond chip and a man in uniform. Danny figured it might have something to do with their names. Concannon, he thought with idle resentment, Danny Boy himself – how could Patrick Shaughnessy have passed up the opportunity to meander on about love and sorrow with a fellow Irishman, even if both of them were several generations removed from the Emerald Isle? 

To the question at hand, though - his girl. What was his girl like? 

Blowing out another breath, Danny started to give the kind of short response that might silence Patrick for a blessed fucking fifteen minutes. He had, “I don't have a girl,” formed and halfway up his throat before it turned back around. It was true enough, his head reasoned, but his chest tightened painfully at the prospect of pretending that Patrick’s question hadn’t immediately called a certain woman to mind. It felt like too much of a lie to hand to Patrick, young and in love and at war. Danny’s mouth quirked up into a mocking half smile, though he couldn’t have told you in that moment who the butt of the joke was. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he responded. “She ain’t that sweet.” 

“You like ‘em mean?” Patrick asked, fixing Danny with a look that hinted at fearful wonder. Jesus, Danny thought. He’d done it now. “Not… Christ, Patrick. Not mean. She just doesn’t blunt her edges. Too smart for that. Too determined, too proud, too sad.” The silence got heavy as Patrick weighed the statement. Even knowing he should shut the hell up, Danny found himself continuing. “She’s long, lean, elegant. The kind of woman who makes you want to sit up and beg just to be allowed to sit up and beg.” Danny hoped the sunburn he’d been sporting since they’d touched down in Afghanistan masked the blush crawling up his neck. He’d said too much and he knew it, couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere, CJ was throwing darts at his picture, planning out the next time she would make him crawl, just to prove she could. Not that she really needed to plan for that. God, it had stung the last time – her decision to key him up just to slap him down, the implication that, when she wanted him, she’d let him know. The suggestion that everything she seemed to feel for him was just an act she could put on to make him heel. Worst of all, though, was the persistent feeling that when she said she wasn’t over what they’d almost had, she’d meant it – and by extension, that when she sliced at him, she was aiming for herself, as well. He hated the idea of her slapping herself around for something as natural as wanting. 

The rest of the afternoon droned on after Patrick left for patrol. To Danny’s relief, there was only light ribbing from the other Marines that evening when they found out he “liked ‘em scary,” especially after the platoon sergeant told a story about his wife that made CJ sound positively tame. Danny sent a quick but emphatic prayer of gratitude to whatever deity had protected him from being quizzed on CJ’s bra size by a bored group of Marines. He’d prefer to keep those visuals to himself. Any group interest in Danny’s love life was eclipsed by focus on the details of their trip into Kandahar Province, and their goals once they got there. Danny took notes, half his mind laying out an outline for his first article embedded with the unit, half his mind replaying the feeling of long fingers twining through his hair, and a husky voice turning cold - "You remember when you asked me what, exactly, I'd do to have you? ... I'd do that."


	2. Three Months Later

3 Months Later

It had been too quiet. He hadn’t settled on a topic of conversation before he got into the Humvee, so he’d left Patrick to his own devices, and now Patrick was hell bent on filling the silence. Staring down at least another hour in the Humvee, to say nothing of the five-hour planned meeting with Pashtun elders and the whole trip back, Danny had no one but himself to blame. For three months, Patrick’s one-sided conversations about Alicia had been respectably short. In fact, Danny had come up with a rule: when Patrick was subjecting him to a description of Alicia – her family, her eyes, her ass - he was allowed to think about CJ without feeling any guilt about it. It had been a good rule. It had kept him from mooning too much, and from beating up on himself too much, because Christ help him, he still loved her. It made it so when, once a month, he added her name to the list of people who would receive his update email, he didn’t have to spend too long agonizing about whether he could subtly add a note to just her without anyone else noticing. He could remind himself that he had already spent fifteen minutes imagining all of the places he could kiss her, and that there was no need to write that in an email that his editor and his mother would also see. Today, though, he was stuck in a Humvee, and Patrick was talking about Christ only knew what, and Danny was at a loss for how to handle the fact that an hour of thinking anything he wanted about Claudia Jean had left him rock hard with no exit strategy. Danny sighed prosaically and decided what the hell – if he had to get out of the Humvee with a hard-on, he might as well spend the whole ride on CJ. Danny was so deep in memories that he could practically smell her perfume when the world exploded.

Washington, DC, 7:15 AM

CJ didn’t think she’d ever seen Carol’s face that white. She’d come back from senior staff with a few points of clarification for the morning briefing only to find her assistant swaying in the doorway of her office. Stopping close enough to the other woman to catch her if she fainted, CJ forced a deep breath and braced for the worst. “Carol?” Carol swallowed, making an obvious effort to compose herself. “Here, come in my office,” CJ started. “Is it…” your sister, she’d started to say, and then caught herself – she couldn’t remember if Carol had a sister, or only a brother, or if she was supposed to know if any of them had been sick. “Would you like water?” CJ asked, realizing too late that she didn’t actually have any. “No, I…” “Sit down,” CJ interjected, steering Carol toward the couch. Carol tugged CJ down with her. “It’s the wires, CJ.” “The wires? This is something from the news?” “From Afghanistan. A Marine convoy drove over several IEDs on the way to a meeting with tribal elders in Kandahar.” CJ just stared at Carol, trying to figure out who her assistant knew who was fighting in Kandahar. “They…” Slightly frantic now, CJ searched her assistant’s face as Carol choked back tears. “They had an embedded reporter with them. Danny Concannon.”

Everything was silent. Carol’s mouth was moving, but CJ couldn’t hear a word; she wondered dully if she’d just gone deaf, or had some kind of stroke. Maybe she’d thought Carol said Danny Concannon, when instead Carol had said something else entirely. Something that didn’t involve Danny being dead in the mountains of Afghanistan. CJ tried to speak, only to find that her mouth was too dry to form the words. She focused, straightening her shoulders. “Danny.” Wordlessly, Carol handed CJ the report. Blinking her eyes into focus, CJ read it, then read it again, trying desperately to absorb the details. Marine convoy. Roadside bombs. Three dead, six wounded. The entire platoon was listed, but when it came to who was dead or wounded – no names.

9:00 AM

CJ never wanted to see the tape of the morning briefing. She couldn’t remember answering a single question, though she knew she had, and she was almost certain she’d trailed off in the middle of more than one sentence. All the same, she’d never been more grateful for the existence of the White House press corps. Wrestling with the ethics of telling the White House reporters that Danny’s unit had been attacked when his family might not know yet, she had kept the news to herself at the briefing, only to find that the press had gotten the scoop without her. Before noon, the names of two of the dead men had been quietly handed to Carol to be passed on to her. Marcus Ruiz, platoon sergeant, and James Kinsey, a private whose picture showed a boy barely old enough to grow peach fuzz. Josh and Leo had put calls in everywhere they thought they could get through. The list of families on the President’s call list included the Concannons - whatever the result might be. CJ sat behind her desk, numb and nauseous, waiting.

The door clicked open and CJ jolted to her feet, heart pounding. Toby stood in front of her, an envelope in his outstretched hand. “What is it?” CJ asked, hoping she sounded normal. “Plane tickets,” Toby responded. “Danny’s alive. He’s hurt, but he’s alive, getting treatment at a military hospital in Germany. Your flight leaves in three hours, so you should go pack.” CJ staggered, catching herself against her desk. “Toby, I can’t… His family. They should –“ “His mother can’t travel, CJ, and she’s all he’s got. You don’t have to go, but there’s no guarantee that anyone else will.” CJ recognized a jab when she heard one, even a jab with the best of intentions, and anger was far more comfortable than fear. She was halfway through a scalding retort about how while Toby would probably die alone, he shouldn’t say that shit about Danny Concannon, when the tears hit. Toby stood impassive in the doorway as her silent sobs shook her. “Wheels up in three hours, CJ,” he said. “We can cover the briefings.”


	3. Arrival

Christ only knew what she’d put in her suitcase, CJ thought darkly, looking out over the ocean from the plane window. She hadn’t been thinking clearly when she’d left the office, wasn’t really thinking clearly now. She’d contemplated an Ambien to help her get through the flight, but she didn’t want to be groggy when she got there. She’d slept in fitful snatches, dreams of Danny alive and vital interspersed with the stark desolation of dreams of Danny dead. Awake, she considered the situation at hand: Danny wounded, in pain, angry at her. As the intercom announced the local time and the plane began its descent, CJ took a deep shuddering breath and tried to clear her mind. As soon as the plane touched the tarmac, she straightened and willed herself to focus. If no one else could be at Danny’s bedside, she couldn’t afford to fall apart on him. 

The taxi ride to the hospital was a blur. Fortunately, someone had called ahead – she probably didn’t make much sense at the front desk of the hospital, but she didn’t seem to need to. “He just got out of surgery, Ms. Cregg,” the nurse told her gently, “It’s looking better than we thought. Cracked a couple ribs. He lost a lot of blood, and he took some shrapnel, but organ damage seems to be minimal. He was wearing a helmet, but he took quite a hit to the head – probably from when the car rolled. Got some swelling, so we’ll be keeping an eye on that. There was some shrapnel near his eye, so we’ll need to monitor his vision, make sure we got it all.” Chest tight, CJ followed the nurse to Danny’s room. Seeing him, bone white and flame red against the pale blue bedsheets, was almost enough to break her. His face was a mess of cuts and bruises, but it was blessedly, unmistakably Danny. She could have kissed him for that alone. There was a recliner in the corner. Shooting the nurse a challenging glance, she tugged it closer to his bedside, dropping her bag beside it. “You’ll be staying in here, then?” the nurse asked with a hint of amusement. CJ could only nod, eyes on Danny, torn between wanting him to rest and needing him to open his eyes – even just momentarily, to prove that he could. She was so focused on Danny that she almost didn’t notice the other patient in the room – a dark haired young man whose smooth, exuberantly freckled face made him look like a boy. She’d seen him once or twice in the pictures attached to Danny’s update emails. Peter, maybe? She sat in her recliner, pulled out her laptop, and searched for Danny’s emails. She could have stopped when she established that the boy in the next bed was Patrick Shaughnessy, a private from Georgia, but then – she couldn’t have stopped. There were only four emails, but CJ read them until she could have recited them. It was nearly dawn when she put down the laptop, steadying herself by watching the rise and fall of Danny’s chest. As the sun began to rise, she curled into the recliner, one hand over Danny’s, and fell asleep.


	4. Waiting

She woke to the sound of measured beeping and brisk, quiet voices. Her initial grogginess gave way to sharp-edged anxiety when she opened her eyes to see nurses entering the room. Heart racing, she sat up, scrambling for some semblance of composure as she watched the well-organized team shift Patrick onto a gurney and wheel him out of the room. Barely a moment later, another nurse walked in the door. Noticing CJ’s agitation, she walked over and calmly began checking the array of wires and IV drips that Danny was attached to. “It’s all right, Ms. Cregg,” she said soothingly, “Mr. Shaughnessy was scheduled for a round of tests this morning. Nothing unexpected, just getting him what he needs.” Some of the tension in CJ’s chest eased. “Do you… I know Danny needs to rest, but how-“ “How long until he wakes up?” the nurse asked with an understanding smile. “It could be a while. If he stayed asleep for as long as another 24 hours, really, we wouldn’t be concerned. I know that’s hard to hear.” CJ couldn’t have said how she felt about it. On the one hand, it was a little bit deflating to know that she would have to wait so long to make sure that Danny was still, well, Danny. On the other hand, it eased the fear that had been coiling in her gut – the gnawing worry that something should have changed by now. “No, I… it’s just good to know what to expect.” “A lot of patients, even before they regain consciousness, respond well to being talked to, read to, sung to. It lets them know they aren’t alone.” CJ nodded mutely. “If you need coffee or food, there’s a cafeteria downstairs, and if you need help, the call button is here. I’ll be back through every couple of hours.”

Almost an hour later, armed with coffee, breakfast, and a stack of reading material, CJ stared pensively at Danny’s sleeping face. “Well, Concannon, I’m sure as shit not singing to you. Not now, anyway. You need to be conscious to appreciate The Jackal. So, I figured we’d talk, and then I’d read to you. You’re a writer. I got newspapers, I got magazines – even a couple of novels. I was going to pick up more, but I didn’t want to get too much more than we could get through in, say, 36 hours. Because that’s when I’m going to start worrying about you sleeping too long again. And if I get sick of what I bought and start feeling vindictive, I’ll read you your own writing. Not that –“ _Jesus_ , CJ chastised herself, _the man got blown up, and you’re making it sound like you don’t like his writing_. “I’m not saying I don’t like your writing; I just know that you get twitchy when you have to interact with it in front of other people. Although you always seemed fine with book readings. I don’t know. Just, you should know, I like your writing. I read your book – the biography of the First Lady. You know that. And I read all of your columns. It’s embarrassing, actually; I save them. Especially since you left Washington. I have a file. A literal folder in my office, filled exclusively with Danny Concannon columns. At first, it was just your pieces from abroad, but then I caved and added my favorite articles of yours from the White House beat, and then I added the ones that pissed me off just so I wouldn’t start thinking of you like some journalist saint, and then… I just have all of them. All of the columns you’ve ever written, I think. I’ve read them all. I can see why you got so uppity about the Dallas Morning News that one time. That was your first White House reporting job, wasn’t it? And even from the get-go, you were damn good. Although your first column sounds a little bit like you can’t believe you got in in the first place. You know, like you were trying to write the thing before the Secret Service hauled you out. Now, you’re practically the voice of the place. Or you were. Now I guess you’re some… globe-trotting voice of justice and journalistic integrity.”

CJ blew out a breath. This whole talking to unresponsive Danny thing was weird, but not as hard as she’d expected. Looking him over in the daylight, CJ took inventory of the cuts and bruises she could see above the covers. She was tempted to pull the sheet back and see if there were any she was missing. _Hell_ , she thought, laughing at herself, _just go ahead and take the gown off, too, Claudia Jean. See everything you’ve been wondering about for five years._ For some reason, thinking of all the things she and Danny hadn’t done had tears welling in the back of her throat.

“It’s weird to have you quiet, Danny. You know, not poking back at me, not pushing back on my bullshit. Not asking to write a profile on the intern I misappropriated and sent after your first articles.” The tears weren’t going away, no matter how forcefully she tried to sniff them back. “I think… I think because you’re unconscious and I just, um, want you back so bad, I’m going to go ahead and tell you – if anybody asked me who my favorite person to talk to in the White House was, and I had to tell the truth, it’d be you. I mean, honestly, even taking it outside of the White House, you. And as for kissing…” CJ paused, trying to draw deep, even breaths. For a moment, she allowed her eyes to well up as she skimmed her fingertips over the back of Danny’s hand. “So. We could start with the paper, but I bet it’s depressing. Or we could open with the National Enquirer. I, Claudia Jean Cregg, White House Press Secretary, opt to begin by briefing you on our national fight against…” - she paused to make sure she was reading the headline correctly – “goblin abductions.” Opening the paper, she skimmed the first line. “Jesus Christ, Danny, I honestly don’t know if the issue is goblins abducting people or goblins themselves being abducted. OK. Well. Here we go.”

She read to Danny for three hours straight. Some of the nurses stopped in to listen, or to chat as they checked Danny’s vitals. They made it through the Enquirer, the Post, and the Times, as well as the first two chapters of the pulpy mystery novel she’d picked out. Just as CJ was contemplating beginning the third chapter, Patrick Shaughnessy was wheeled back in. CJ started to begin the chapter, but paused. He looked so alone and so young on the other side of the room. And if there was anyone who would have made a point of including him, it would have been Danny. CJ sighed. “All right, Danny, hang on a sec. Just… going to shift around. I’ll get to hold your other hand for a while. Although I’m not really sure you want me touching you at all. You were pretty mad at me. And I was mad at you, I guess. Or at myself. But you have to wake up to yell at me, and until then, I… I need to hold your hand.” CJ considered moving the recliner, but she still wanted to sleep as close to Danny as she could. There was a smaller chair over by Patrick – she picked it up and set it in the middle between the two beds, although – if she was honest – still closer to Danny. She’d meant that thing about holding his hand. “Hey, Patrick. Well, we don’t know each other. Is it OK if I call you Patrick? I’m not going to call you Private Shaughnessy. Private Patrick? Private Patch? Just Patch? Just Patch. All right. So, are you the kind of guy who would be uncomfortable if I launched back into this murder mystery? Would you prefer… God, I don’t know, T.S. Eliot? Would that weird you out more?” CJ paused, studying Patch for a moment. He was so young. “I think I’d feel kind of guilty just throwing you into this murder thing with no warning. Might give you nightmares. And Eliot can be soothing. I mean, he likes it,” she noted, nodding toward Danny. “He’s a freak, though. But we’ll start with it, and if it seems wrong, I’ll go find another goblin abduction story.”

She read about half of the slim book of Eliot poems she’d bought. She read “Little Gidding” twice, just because it seemed to fit, her voice catching on “and all shall be well/and all manner of things shall be well.” By that point, though, the afternoon was fading into evening, and CJ thought she’d lose her mind if she heard her own voice anymore. She powered up her laptop and searched for something that they could sleep to. Schubert, maybe, or Bach. She considered calling someone – Toby, Josh, Donna, Leo, Carol; her phone was filled with missed calls. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, though. Instead, she wrote a brief email – how Danny was, what she knew so far, a call for suggestions for books and music – and sent it to all of them, plus one or two of the reporters who’d made a point of helping her get information. She checked the news and her email, attempting to stay at least halfway up to speed with work. The temptation to call the White House for an update grew, but she wasn’t sure she could handle being filled in on all the little crises that would be resolved by the beginning of the next news cycle. Instead, CJ found herself humming along to one of Bach’s Partitas, once again comforting herself by watching Danny breathe. She drifted to sleep, one hand over his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * the reference to T.S. Eliot's "Little Gidding" is a nod to thisiszircon's "25 Hours." (https://thisiszircon.dreamwidth.org/38458.html) I read the poem and loved it, and it seemed to fit here.


	5. Awake

Everything hurt. His throat was dry, his face throbbed, and his torso sent up flares of protest every time he breathed. His barely-cracked eyelids still let in torturous amounts of light, reflected on what seemed like white walls, wherever the hell he was. It smelled like cotton and antiseptic and CJ. _Goddamnit, Concannon_ , Danny thought viciously. _You already spent an hour today… today? Or yesterday?_ The last hour he could remember, he decided, he’d spent thinking about Claudia Jean Cregg. _Gotta get that under wraps, Danny Boy_. But it really did smell like CJ. Danny shifted and immediately regretted it. His neck, back, and shoulders hadn’t really hurt before, but they screamed when he moved. Trying to loosen the tension, he rolled his head to the right and heard Patrick’s voice, low and raspy. “Hey, Danny,” Patrick half-whispered. He was going to fucking kill the kid if the next thing he heard was about Alicia. “ _Danny_. I think your scary lady’s here.” That was followed by the most pathetic chuckle Danny could imagine hearing from a 21 year-old. He opened his eyes wider, trying to see Patrick – was he hurt? The light was less searing now, as he adapted to it. Patrick was in a hospital bed, which left Danny to gather that he, too, was probably in a hospital bed. Fear began setting in, unease writhing low in his stomach. “ _Patrick_ ,” he tried to whisper, but the words died in his throat. His mouth was too dry. The haze of fear and pain grew thicker; Danny tried to sit up, but found himself thrashing with pain instead, too weak to pull himself up. “ _Danny_ ,” – Patrick again – “ _hey_ , Danny, it’s OK, it’s all right,” but Danny couldn’t calm down. Eyes wide open now, once again letting in painful amounts of light, breathing fast and shallow, he tried to shout for help and got nowhere.

“Danny?” – _not_ Patrick, he noted, too desperate to think past that. “Danny, _Danny_ , it’s me. It’s CJ. Danny, _please_. You’re in Germany. You’re in a hospital. _Hey_ , OK, Danny, lay back. If you want to sit up, we’ll get you up. Just, please, God, _breathe_. Breathe slow…” Cool, long-fingered hands were running over his chest, stroking and soothing. As his breathing came back under control, Danny turned his head back, only to come face to face with CJ. Her hands found his face, even gentler now than on his chest, carefully avoiding his half-healed cuts. “ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Danny attempted, but he couldn’t get it out. He tried again, something shorter this time: “ _CJ_.” “Yeah, Danny,” she responded, eyes filled with tears. “I’m here. You’re OK. Do you…” Her eyes spilled over; absently, Danny noted the feeling of a tear dropping on his neck. “ _Water_ ,” he tried, and she seemed to understand. “Just a sec, Danny, it’s coming,” she responded, pressing a button. “On its way.” Waiting, she stood by his bed, stroking his hair and silently crying. Desperate to say something, anything, Danny tried again, but CJ shook her head. Laughing a little through her tears, she warned him, “I think I just heard Patrick call me your ‘scary lady,’ Daniel. Lay back and breathe, or I’ll start living up to it.”


	6. Comfort

Danny was profoundly grateful for the nurses who gave him water and helped him sit up. The only way he would have liked them better is if they’d been faster. They kept trying to talk to CJ, like she was in any condition to be talking to anyone but him. He’d made her cry, and then just had to lay there and watch her force polite small talk through her tears. Finally, the nurses finished the last of their check-in and left, promising to come back soon. Danny fought through the fog of exhaustion and – he thought grumpily – dehydration, unwilling to fall asleep while CJ cried over him. “ _Hey_ ,” he started, “come here.” He glanced over at Patrick, who was either asleep or a damned fine actor. “I’m here, Danny,” she replied, eyes still suspiciously bright. “Closer, Claudia Jean,” he insisted. “Danny, I…” “You’re crying, CJ, and it’s my fault, and I’m just so damn glad to see you –“ “Your fault? _No_ , Danny – it’s, I’m just so relieved. I wouldn’t let myself be scared that you wouldn’t wake up, but I guess I was anyway, and then you woke up scared and I couldn’t help, but you’re back, you’re awake, I just –“ “CJ. _CJ_. Would you just come here? I just want to hold you for a minute, and I can’t… I don’t think I can lift my arms up high enough right now.” “I don’t want to hurt you, Danny,” she said softly. “You took a hell of a hit.” “You won’t,” he insisted, not caring if she did. She quirked a brow, tacitly challenging his assertion, but sat on the edge of the bed anyway. She leaned over him gingerly, gently resting her head in the crook of his neck, lightly laying one of her hands over his heart.

CJ pulled away slowly, careful not to wake him. She wasn’t sure when he’d slipped back into sleep – Lord knew she’d thought Patrick was faking sleep to give them a little privacy, but maybe getting blown up was just that exhausting. Curling up in the recliner, she took Danny’s hand and fell back to sleep herself.

The rest of the day brought a steady stream of doctors and nurses for both Patrick and Danny. It was plain that every test was painful and exhausting, but Danny tried so valiantly to shield CJ from his discomfort that offering sympathy seemed like a slap in the face. When Patrick was wheeled out of the room for a different battery of tests, CJ sank down on the end of Danny’s bed and considered her next move. “CJ?” “Yeah, Daniel?” “You look…” CJ waited, raising a brow. “I dunno. Started that one without thinking.” He shrugged, frowning up at CJ. “You look beautiful. Also sad, though. You OK?” CJ let out a short, humorless laugh. “Danny, I… You got blown up. And now, when the doctors come to look at you, it seems like you’re trying to hide how much pain you’re in. And if you’re doing it to keep me from seeing, or worrying, or anything like that… please don’t. I know you’re tough. I want to know for sure if you’re hurting, so I can know for sure that you’re healing.” Danny looked at her quizzically. “OK. Patrick’s gonna think I’m a pansy, but that’s all right. What the hell does he know.” CJ smirked. “Patrick’s what, five foot ten? And he already thinks I’m _scary_. I’ll handle Patrick.” Danny chuckled, and CJ raised a brow, waiting to find out what she’d walked into. “Oh, no, CJ. Gotta insist. I want you handling me.” CJ looked at him, all bandaged and laid out in a hospital bed, waggling his eyebrows like a cartoon Casanova, and lost it. Danny laughed with her, though the laugh she loved was more restrained than she was used to. Cracked ribs, she noted. Even so, she couldn’t bring herself to let the moment go. Scooting up toward him, she positioned herself above him, careful not to actually lay across his battered torso, mustered up a smoldering stare, and grinned. “All yours, Danny Boy,” she murmured, and then lowered her head to kiss him.

Hours after the kiss, Danny could confidently report that his heart had exploded. It was tough to say whether the fuse was lit when CJ hit him with that stare, or whether the whole ball of fire was the direct result of her kiss. He had a lifetime to replay the moment, though, so he was sure he’d figure it out eventually. “Danny?” He couldn’t hold back a grin as he turned toward CJ’s voice. “Yeah?” “You OK? You seemed kind of… checked out. Just smiling at the ceiling.” _Busted_. “No, I… I mean, I did check out. Sorry. It might be the morphine, but really, it’s just – you were at the part in the book where the detective’s describing the lady’s –“ “The _murderer’s_ \- ” “Oh, yeah. Well. Scary lady.” “ _What?!_ ” “Her legs, though. Y’know. And, well -” “You got caught up imagining her legs? The _scary lady’s_ legs?” CJ’s tone was sharp, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent of laughter. “That’s just it,” Danny admitted, laughing at himself already. “You can’t expect me to focus on anybody else’s legs when you’re right there. Got great legs, scary lady. Great, well… ah, yeah. So, I shifted focus.” CJ’s sputtering chuckles shifted into full throated laughter at that, and Danny basked in the sound. “Shifted focus, my ass, Concannon.” “Now _there’s_ something to focus on,” he started with a grin, winking lasciviously. CJ smirked. “Bite me, Fishboy.” “Come back here and I will,” he challenged, smirking right back. A noise in the hallway seemed to distract her, and Danny cursed inwardly. As if she could hear him, CJ took his hand, squeezing sympathetically as she sent him a sultry glance. “We’ll pencil it in.”


	7. Friends and Lovers

The door opened to a harried-looking nurse trying fruitlessly to restrain the trim blonde whirlwind pushing her way into the room. CJ’s hand tightened on Danny’s, and she rose protectively from her seat, but the blonde didn’t even glance at Danny as she rushed to the other bed in the room. Shaking her head, the nurse fixed CJ with a glance. “Just like you were,” she muttered, leaving CJ blushing under Danny’s surprised stare. “Where is he?” the other woman asked frantically. “They said – they said he was out of surgery, that he was all right for visitors now.” “He’s in physical therapy right now,” the nurse said soothingly. “He’ll be back.” “Can I go see him? I won’t… I just – “ “No,” came the firm reply. “Not today. If he sees you, he’ll get distracted, start trying to leap tall buildings or hoist sofas. He’ll be back in maybe twenty minutes. Stay put for me, and I’ll start trying to see if there’s a private room I could put you in. Give you some space to cry over him without waking up Pippi Longstocking over there.” “Hey!” Danny started to interject, but CJ shot him a killing glance. He rolled his eyes. “Alicia, right?” he asked. The blonde, who had been staring vacantly at Patrick’s bed, jumped a little, then turned toward Danny with a polite smile. “That’s right,” she nodded. “You must be… Danny, right? Patrick talked about you. He said you were real sweet.” Danny laughed, and Alicia looked confused. “He said the same about you,” he explained, “more times than I could count.” Seeing Alicia’s blush, CJ jumped in to give her a moment. “You picked a winner, Alicia,” she noted. “Danny here got me branded ‘scary lady’ by the entire platoon.” Before Alicia had time to figure out if she was allowed to laugh at that, though, the door opened and nothing else mattered. She all but flew to Patrick’s side, talking low and fast as she checked his pulse, hands fluttering over his bandages like birds. Danny fixed CJ with a stare. “I never said you were scary,” he started, warily watching CJ’s eyebrows rise. “I said you weren’t sweet.” “Good Lord, Danny, you really must be doped up if you think that’s something to tell a wom-“ “Not in a bad way,” Danny insisted. CJ’s brows had practically disappeared into her hairline. “I said you’re too proud and too smart to blunt your edges. CJ, I didn’t mean – sweet’s fine, but you’re more than sweet. That’s what I meant.” He blew out a sigh of relief when CJ’s face softened, settled more comfortably against the pillows when she tenderly brushed a lock of his hair out of his eyes. “You want more goblin stories?”

According to the nurses, Danny and Patrick were both making incredibly fast progress. As far as CJ was concerned, it could be faster. It was Sunday now, and she was more than half expecting a call from Leo telling her to get her ass on a plane before the start of the week. She didn’t want to get on a plane without Danny. Since Patrick had been moved to another room, Danny had first pressured her to take Patrick’s bed, then to come sleep next to him in his bed. She was a little embarrassed to admit that, if she weren’t so afraid of elbowing Danny’s broken ribs, she wouldn’t have needed much pressuring at all to sleep next to him. As it was, she might succumb to the temptation. Danny seemed stronger every day. He and Patrick were pushing each other in physical therapy. They had dragged her and Alicia into a couples’ walker race. She and Danny had, of course, won, but it could have been a blowout. Her stride was close to twice as long as Alicia’s, but getting to the finish line without Danny would have been a hollow accomplishment. Even so, she hadn’t been able to hold back all of her grumbling about the close margin of their victory. Danny had pretended not to hear it, but Patrick hadn’t been as wise. “Makes a man want to sit up and beg just to be allowed to sit up and beg, right, Concannon?” he’d quipped. CJ had stared first at him, then at Danny, unsure of who to laser-eye into submission. Patrick snickered, but then fell silent, looking a little nervous. Danny just chuckled, shaking his head. “Amateur move, Patch,” he sighed, heading back toward his room. Alicia, meanwhile, was looking at CJ with obvious respect. “I need to learn to do that,” she remarked. CJ grinned; Patrick looked terrified.

When they got back to the room, CJ advanced on Danny with a challenge in her eyes. “Was that another Concannon quote, Fishboy? Because it didn’t sound like an original Patch thought.” Danny considered saying he didn’t remember, blaming it on the concussion, but didn’t bother with the lie. “I’ve told you most of it already. It was one of my first days with the unit. Patrick had been telling me about Alicia for about six hours, and then he asked me what, ah, what my girl was like.” CJ was looking at him, her face inscrutable. Danny knew he should probably wait for her reaction, but he couldn’t face the silence. “And I was going to tell him I didn’t have a girl, I really was, after how we’d left things. Only it didn’t feel true. As soon as he asked the question, I thought of you. I didn’t tell him your name, or anything like that, just…” “That I wasn’t sweet?” she parried back drily. He could hear the amusement under her words, but he wanted her to understand what he’d been trying to tell Patrick that day. “Like I told you before, when I told him you weren’t sweet, I told him that you didn’t blunt your edges. I said you were too smart for that, too determined, too sad, too proud. And yeah, I said that I’d beg just to beg for you. You know I would – I already have, and I probably will again.” Danny paused momentarily, then decided to say everything he had to say. “Patrick asked me if I had a girl because Alicia’s his girl. He really loves her, don’t get me wrong, but it’s the way a boy loves his girl. I’m not a boy anymore, and I wanted to tell him about the woman I’m in love with.” Silence again, but this time, Danny couldn’t fill it. CJ looked like she might faint. He moved a little closer, wondering if she’d been sleeping enough, been eating enough, whether he’d be able to reach around his walker and catch her if she fell. Her spine straightened and he knew he should have known better. She stood up to everything. Meeting her eyes, Danny was surprised to see tears there. “God, you get to me, Danny.” She stepped closer, moving around the walker to close the distance. He pulled her into an embrace with one arm, still holding the walker with the other. He could feel her tears against his neck as she lay her head on his shoulder, close enough that he could hear her murmur, “You get to me every damn time.”


	8. Slow Dance

Danny could have stayed like that, holding her, for the rest of his life and been happy about it. He felt the arms around his waist shift, and realized that CJ was checking her watch. “Somewhere to be?” he asked jokingly. “Danny, you’ve been on your feet for a long time now. Do you want to sit down?” He noted with satisfaction that her head was still resting on his shoulder. “Nope.” “Do you _need_ to sit down?” He laughed. “Really, CJ, I feel good. I feel like I should stay on my feet until I’m tired, to really get a feel for how I’m progressing.” “I just don’t think you should overdo it, Fishboy.” CJ turned her lips to his neck, pressing soft kisses up toward his beard. “You’re going to need to start saving your strength.” Danny chuckled at the obvious manipulation, turning his head to press a kiss to her temple. Suddenly, the ringtone of CJ’s phone sounded, and she groaned into his shoulder. “Do you need to get that?” he asked, already loosening his hold on her. “I’m ignoring it,” CJ responded. “It’s been on silent for the past few days, but Leo said I should at least know when I was missing a call, so…” “Well, in that case,” Danny said with a smile, “May I have this dance?” CJ pulled back from his shoulder and stared at him blankly. “What?” “Oh, come on,” he teased, “This is practically our song. I mean, usually it plays me out of your office, but…” “You can’t dance with a walker, Danny.” “I’ll lean on you if I need to.” When she just looked at him doubtfully, Danny opted for melodrama. Adopting a look of passionate melancholy, he implored her, “Dance with me, CJ, while the music lasts.” CJ laughed and Danny pretended to be wounded. She stayed where she was, comfortable in his arms, and considered for a moment. Applying the term “music” to the tinny ringer of her cell phone was a stretch, but thinking back on all of the balls where she hadn’t danced with him, and had wished she could have, CJ couldn’t resist. The ringer turned off just as they began a cautious approximation of a slow dance, but neither of them cared.

They’d danced once on the campaign, in a grubby little bar somewhere deep in Idaho. At the time, Danny hadn’t realized how he would lean on that memory every time he saw her in a ball gown, tugging her friends out to dance with her. He hadn’t savored it like he should have – he’d passed her off to Josh too soon, and hadn’t insisted on a second dance. He wasn’t even sure if she remembered it. CJ’s voice broke his reverie. “Do you remember our first dance?” she asked, a half smile on her face while her fingers played with the curls at the back of his neck. “In Idaho,” he grinned, “In that dingy little bar. I was just thinking about that.” Her half smile was a whole smile now. “I always wondered if you’d forgotten. I spent the whole night debating whether or not to ask you to dance again.” Danny grinned back. “I spent four years wishing I’d cut in on one of your dances with Sam.” “Why with Sam?” “Toby was intimidating, and Josh was so drunk he would have fallen down if you hadn’t been holding him up. Plus, you danced more with Sam than with anybody else.” “He actually likes to dance. I always feel like I’m leading Toby to the gallows.” “And Josh?” “It’s like dancing with a pogo stick. A drunk one. He _bops_. It’s infuriating.” Laughing, Danny pulled CJ into a spin. He could tell the exact moment she stopped worrying that he would lose his balance and started enjoying the sensation of twirling back to him. Arms back around him, CJ slowed the rhythm to a gentle sway, holding him close. “All right, Danny Boy,” she said authoritatively. “Time for bed. You’ve romanced me.” Smirking at her tone, Danny turned and wiggled his eyebrows. Suddenly, the implication of her statement hit him. “You’re coming with me?” “That’s right,” she declared. “I’m going to go lie in sin with the vice president of the AV club.” “And by lie in sin, you mean read that mystery novel out loud, don’t you?” “A lady never tells.”


End file.
